


Thank Jarila for Veela

by Varali



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Romance, Some Humor, Veela Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varali/pseuds/Varali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is invited by the British Society of Veela to their annual Jarila's Day celebration. Draco is an unwilling benefactor to the same event. When the two meet at the party, Hermione discovers something interesting about Draco's lineage and something ignites between the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I last wrote fanfiction; I thought I'd celebrate my return to the scene with a good old veela!Draco fic. :) Enjoy!

_The British Society of Veela_

_cordially invites you to attend_

_a grand dinner and ball_

_in celebration of Jarila's Day_

_on the 4th of June_

_two thousand and one_

_at seven o' clock in the evening_

_Amaryllis Gardens_

 

_directions enclosed_

_summer formal attire_

_respondez, s'il vous plat_

 

Hermione looked over the invitation, giving it a nod of approval.

“Fancy,” Ron Weasley piped up, peering over her shoulder at the elegant card clutched in her hand. She nearly jumped out of her chair in surprise – Hermione Granger was no pushover, she'll have you know! - but ever since Ron had received Auror training, he'd learned how to sneak up on her, which he gleefully and regularly began to do as revenge for all the times she'd ambushed him in the boys' dormitory while they were at Hogwarts.

“Don't do that, Ronald Weasley, or you'll find yourself the miserable victim of a hex one of these days,” Hermione said primly, ignoring one Harry Potter's snort of amusement as he walked into her office, hands held up to show he was unarmed. “See, Harry knows how to announce himself,” she added. Never mind that her office was warded to prevent entry without permission and the wards admitted her two best friends freely. It was the _principle_ of the matter.

She tucked all of her work away for the day as Harry and Ron greeted her cheerily and sat in the chairs opposite her desk. Even as adults (as _hideous_ as the word sounded in all of their ears), the three were nigh inseparable despite working in different Ministry departments. When Harry and Ron were away and in the field, Hermione waited impatiently for their return. When Hermione was sent abroad to research or liaise for a magical species, Harry and Ron were antsy. One couldn't spend a year together with best friends and not come to regard them as closer than family.

“What's that?” one of said best friends (Harry, or _Auror Potter_ as he was now known) inquired as he leaned across her table to peer at the back of the invitation.

“It's the invitation for Jarila's Day,” Hermione replied, passing it to him so that he could see for himself.

For the last few months, Hermione had her plate full with the British Society of Veela's Jarila's Day celebration. This was the first one that had been assigned to her, though it was an annual gathering. The veela and part-veela of Britain and their guests convened every year on the fourth of June to celebrate the Slavic holiday dedicated to Jarila – the god of the sun, fertility, and rebirth. The veela and their kin were very much in their element during this holiday for their courtship rituals usually bore fruit on this day due to the large number of veela and wizards in one place. Hermione tried not to think about that.

Her boss, Amos Diggory, was going to be in Bulgaria on the date, having accepted the Bulgarian Minister for Magic's invitation to their own festivities. Mr. Diggory had then assigned Hermione to be the representative of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which was fitting as she'd helped set up the event.

“So is everything all set, then?” Ron inquired. “It's only two weeks away, after all.”

“Mostly,” Hermione replied, amused. Ron was already attacking the Toothflossing Stringmints that had been laid out for visitors on her table. “There are just a few more things here and there, but most of everything to do with the Ministry's been ironed out.”

“Great,” Ron said, breaking into a clean, toothy grin. “Obviously you're taking me and Harry, right?”

Harry looked at Ron in alarm. “You know I can't. Ginny'd kill me.” He glanced at Hermione as Ron let out a guffaw. “Sorry, Hermione, but I probably shouldn't go. I don't know what would happen in a ballroom full of veela.” He shared a significant look with her, eyes darting back towards Ron with meaning. She'd already have her hands full with Ronald Bilius Weasley in a crowd of veela and part-veela. Hermione let out a rueful laugh.

“Congratulations on what I'm sure is going to be a spectacular event, though,” Harry added, reaching over to pat her arm.

Hermione gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Harry. I understand. Ron and I will survive somehow,” she said with amusement.

“Do you think they'll have good food?” the redhead asked. Hermione couldn't tell if his mind was really on the food, though – that dreamy, faraway look was misleading. He often looked that way whenever he dreamt of Honeydukes . . . or when Fleur Delacour-Weasley turned on the charm.

“Slavic food, from what I've seen of the menu,” Hermione replied, taking the response card from the invitation. Ron watched her eagerly as she picked out a quill and dipped it in ink. “Borscht, goulash, things like that.”

She ticked the box that signified her attendance, then indicated that they would be a party of two. Ron's eyes lit up.

“I could kiss you,” he said happily as she placed the response card in her out-tray where it vanished with a _pop_.

“Save it for the veela,” Hermione retorted while Harry elbowed him, causing Ron to flush and give her an abashed grin.

Hermione regarded Ron fondly. The two of them were clearly best friends, and when they'd tried for a romance, they crashed and burned. It was better this way – everything clicked into place once Hermione and Ron reestablished themselves as friends above everything else.

“Hermione, you done?” Harry asked as he rose to his feet, stretching. Ron followed suit, flexing out a crick in his neck. “It's Friday night. Don't you think it's time for a break?”

He grinned at her, and Hermione grinned back. “I'm finished for the day, don't you worry,” she said, getting to her feet and gathering her purse. “Where's tonight's dinner?”

“George recommended this new Spanish place. They've got paella and tapas and all that stuff . . . Lee even told George that the Barcelona Fuerza Quidditch Team eats there when they're in London, so I bet the food's good - ”

Hermione followed her two friends, securing her office with a few flicks of her wand and listening with half an ear to Ron as he and Harry started talking about Barcelona Fuerza's chances against Puddlemere United. Just like old times.

 

Draco Malfoy scanned the invitation that he held in his hands. The card had arrived with a letter of thanks for his generous contribution, and Draco's lip curled into a sneer.

“Father, I'm fairly certain that I didn't make a donation to the British Society of Veela,” he said, glancing over the top of the lavish invitation and across the table to where his father sat. When Malfoy senior didn't reply, Draco sighed through his nose. “You know I don't really care for any of that politicking that you used to do - ”

He stopped short as his father finally looked up from his dinner. While Draco was no longer intimidated by Lucius, old habits died hard. He'd seen the man at his lowest and that was one image that he'd take to his grave.

Lucius looked much better now that years had passed since Voldemort's death. His hair was going white but he no longer looked as gaunt and hollowed as he did when the Dark Lord was at the peak of power during the Second War. Draco had seen his father groveling at Voldemort's feet, and it was a reminder that Lucius was not as invincible as he seemed to Draco growing up.

“You can no longer ostracize yourself from respectable society,” Lucius said as he raised his wineglass to his lips. “While we withdrew from the Wizarding World for a few years since the Dark Lord's final defeat, I think that it is prudent to now reestablish yourself for your own future.”

Draco glanced at his mother. She gave him an encouraging nod. Narcissa did not quite have the iron fist like Lucius, but she could influence her son in several ways that Lucius could not.

Lucius leaned forward, looking intently at his son. “While we continue to possess the Malfoy wealth, we are no longer reaping as much income as we previously did. I no longer hold positions of authority - ” Lucius kept his face straight - “but you are not bound to the same fate as I. The interest _per annum_ from our vault at Gringotts, as well as from our vaults in Lichtenstein and Switzerland, will be enough to support your lifestyle. However - ”

Draco sighed, retreating into his own thoughts as his father droned on. Really, he'd just wanted to keep to himself after the Second War. Draco had been forced to eat his words of prejudice, and he didn't want to deal with being in unfortunate middle ground between those who shunned him for deserting the Dark Lord and those who didn't believe he'd done enough good to be trustworthy. He'd severed all ties with the outside world, content to brood and to pursue several mundane pastimes, doing the occasional small business venture here and there. He believed he'd live the rest of his life like that and was looking forward to it but it seemed that his parents had other ideas.

“ - And considering our heritage, the Jarila's Day celebration is a perfect avenue to start reintegrating yourself into respectable Wizarding society - ”

“Yes, yes, _respectable_ society,” Draco interrupted with a sneer. His father still had no love for Muggleborns and Muggle-defenders. He had simply defected from Voldemort because he no longer wanted to be under his boot. Lucius wished for a life of peace with his family and knew that it would be impossible if Voldemort won the war.

Draco, on the other hand, witnessed Voldemort torture and kill Muggleborns, Muggles, and Muggle-sympathizers. Then he saw Voldemort do the same to pure-bloods who got in his way. In the end, everyone was the same in the face of death.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, and he looked up at her. She had grown softer in appearance in the years after the war. Draco supposed it was because she no longer had to worry about holding allegiance to a Lord that would sooner kill them than reward them.

“Your father and I just want you to be able to hold your head up when you _do_ have to go out into the Wizarding World again,” she said, reaching out to hold his hand. “The Blacks and Malfoys have always been proud but I want you to be respected because of what you've done. Harry Potter's testimony in front of the Wizengamot can only do so much. You don't have to keep flaunting your good deeds to the public eye – but a few here and there wouldn't be amiss. Just enough so that people remember you and you can walk freely in this world.”

Her explanation made much more sense than Lucius'. For all of Narcissa's investment in her son's well-being, it was still about appearances.

Draco sighed. He looked at the invitation again. The fourth of June – he had two weeks to prepare.

“Mother, I suppose you'll want to help me find suitable dress robes,” he said dully. “The ones I have are from my Hogwarts days.”

“Of course, dear,” Narcissa said, sharing a subtle look of triumph with her husband. “We'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow.”

“Tuppy!” Draco called out. A house-elf appeared at his elbow. “Get me a glass of Ogden's, neat. I need it.”


	2. The Chance Meeting

“Jarila's Day? Fleur won't stop yammering about it,” Ginny said, flicking her flaming Weasley-red hair across her shoulder. “She and Bill are heading to France to celebrate, thank Merlin. It'll give her some time to get over her jollies before coming back so that I don't have to hear a play-by-play.” 

Ron made a disgusted face into his sundae, and Harry let out a discreet cough. Hermione's eyebrows seemed to rise up into her hairline. “ _Jollies_?” she repeated incredulously. 

“Yeah. _Every_ Jarila's Day is like . . . Kinky Christmas for veela, or something. It's all about celebrating fertility, so - ”

“Ginny,” Harry interrupted, his face turning red. “I'd rather not hear about Bill and Fleur's 'Kinky Christmas', thanks,” he said, looking highly uncomfortable. 

“How do you think _I_ feel whenever she chats me up about it every year?” his girlfriend retorted, smirking as Harry and Ron blanched. The sisters-in-law had grown much closer after the Second War, Ginny spending her time between her own flat, the Burrow, and Shell Cottage whenever she wasn't busy with Professional Quidditch training. 

“Well, I'm sure _Hermione_ 's going to have her eyes and ears full _this_ year,” Ginny said, arching a brow at Hermione. “You'll be in the thick of it. Hopefully you won't see snogging couples everywhere, eh?” 

Hermione shook her head, preferring not to dwell on it. Whatever the veela and their partners did in private after the ball was their business, she decided with firm resolve. “I'll be sure to look away and cover my ears,” she said primly, earning a laugh from the Holyhead Harpies' Chaser. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sat at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, enjoying the pleasant summer breeze from beneath colorful umbrellas as they slurped their ice creams. The new owner, a cousin of Florean Fortescue's, always gave Harry, Ron, Hermione, and whoever came along with them free treats to go with their desserts.

“Thanks for offering to help me find something to wear to the ball,” Hermione told Ginny earnestly. “None of the things I have are appropriate for an outdoor summer party.” Hermione wasn't obsessed with clothes or fashion, but she did like to look nice, if not presentable. Her biggest insecurity had been her teeth, but that was a thing of the past.

“You're welcome,” Ginny said, fishing out the last bite of brownie from the bottom of her sundae. “I'm just glad that you have _taste_. Ron will be a nightmare to shop for – at least that's Harry's problem, not mine.” Ron choked on his ice cream, and Harry clapped his back, torn between agreeing with his girlfriend and defending his best friend. He wisely chose to stay quiet. 

“You _know_ Mum was the one who picked out those frilly things – ”

“Right, well, I'm done with my sundae,” Hermione hastily interjected. The Weasley siblings got into some spectacular squabbles sometimes, and they really didn't need to have the whole street running for cover. “Shall we, Ginny? The event's only a week away now and I want to be sure that I've got a good dress by the end of the day.”

“Sure,” Ginny replied, rising smoothly to her feet. “See you later, Harry.” She leaned in and gave the Boy Who Lived a quick kiss then clapped her brother on the shoulder. “Avoid the lace,” she said in parting, grinning as Ron glowered at her. 

The two girls set down Diagon Alley, which was colorful and busy as ever. A lot of people were out and about, enjoying a proper summer weekend.

They made their way to Twilfitt and Tattings, having decided that Madam Malkin's dress robes were too plain and Gladrags' were too flamboyant. 

The shop bell chimed pleasantly as Hermione and Ginny stepped in. Twilfitt and Tattings had a very stuffy atmosphere – Hermione felt as though she was entering an empty church. Mannequins displayed elegant dress robes that looked very nice but also seemed as though they belonged in a museum.

Hermione could hear murmurs toward the back of the shop, and she walked over to the counter, ringing the bell. 

“Yes, I'll be with you in a moment,” the shopkeeper replied, poking her head out from behind the dressing room doors to the far corner. Hermione nodded, giving her a polite smile. “Are you're satisfied with the alterations, sir?” Hermione could hear her saying to her customer.

“Yes, I'll take these. Send them by owl post to my address,” she heard a familiar voice reply. A few moments later, the shopkeeper – an elderly but energetic witch – came strolling out, men's dress robes tucked in her hands.

“Have you found anything that you like, dearie?” she asked as she whisked the robes onto hangers.

“I was wondering if you had - ”

Hermione trailed off as the shop's previous customer strolled out of the dressing rooms, brushing a speck of lint from his impeccably pressed shirt.

“Malfoy,” she said. His face mirrored her own look of surprise before he schooled his expression into indifference.

“Granger.”

 

After being bullied by his mother into buying several dress robes – in case he needed them, she said – he'd finally sent her off to go to the bookshop to wait while he fitted all of her choices. 

Draco was having a blissfully average day. He hadn't run into anyone he knew (or anyone who knew _him_ ), which served him all the better; he had lunch with his mother in a quiet restaurant, went to Quidditch Quality Supplies and put in an order for the latest broomstick model, then proceeded to Twilfitt and Tattings to have his order of dress robes shipped to the Manor. As he rarely ventured out of the Manor in avoidance of old acquaintances and the press, he was relieved that the day was going so well. 

Little did he know that that was about to change. 

He'd tried on his robes, decided that they were acceptable, and was just about to write a check for his order when he found himself staring face-to-face with someone he hadn't seen in years.

The sight of her made him feel ill – she didn't exactly evoke the pleasantest of memories. In a flash, emotion and recollection spilled across him: the spite he felt when she beat him in all his classes; the horror that roiled through him when he saw her screaming and writhing in pain on his sitting room floor; the relief he felt when the war was over and he no longer had to face daily reminders of his choices and the choices of others. 

“Malfoy,” she said, her eyes unreadable. 

“Granger,” he acknowledged, ensuring that his expression didn't betray everything that he felt.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before the youngest Weasley came over to them, her jaw dropping when she realized who he was. “You!”

The shopkeeper, who had been witness to their less than enthusiastic greetings, quietly excused herself to fiddle with something in the back. 

Draco barely opened his mouth to reply when the shop bell tinkled, ushering in his mother. 

“Draco, are you finished with your shopping? There is a lovely new tea emporium that's just opened - ” Narcissa stopped in her tracks when she realized who Draco was talking to. Or _not_ talking to, as they were just staring at one another. Draco wanted to slap his hand across his forehead. As if things could get any more awkward – his mother had been present during Granger's _torture_ , and he wasn't sure if Granger would react violently to the other woman's presence.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Granger said with a small nod of her head. 

“Ms. Granger,” Narcissa said in reply, her countenance stiff. 

“Are we just going to stand around and say each other's names all day?” Ginny Weasley said, bracing her hands on her hips.

“I was just about to leave,” Draco replied stiffly, taking out his checkbook and ringing the bell. He turned to the counter, deciding to ignore Granger altogether. And he was having such a good day. 

 

Draco had changed. Of course, Hermione knew that – if he hadn't, he would have gleefully identified her, Harry, and Ron and served them up on a silver platter to Voldemort that one fateful night several years back. Regardless, she half-expected him to launch into a tirade about how he didn't shop where Muggleborns even so much as _breathed_. 

But the change wasn't just in attitude – Hermione was surprised by how much he'd changed physically as well. He was now head and shoulders taller than her, and he wore his hair just a shade longer than he used to when they were students. His cheekbones had grown even more defined, emphasizing his already pointy face. All of those changes suited him, but there was something else – ah, yes. He didn't have that arrogant swagger and condescending smirk that she'd learned to associate with him. Maybe it was because he wasn't throwing barbs her way.

As it was, the lack of insults notwithstanding, he didn't look happy to see her. Hermione wasn't thrilled to see him either – she was reminded of the war simply by his presence. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. 

Despite all the horrifying memories that he brought with him, Hermione didn't need reminding that Draco's last act where she had been concerned was to deny her identity when he was pressed. If he hadn't done that, she, Ron, and Harry would probably have been dead. Harry had also told her about Narcissa's last act of deception against Voldemort, and while she had done it not to protect Harry but to find her son, the outcome was the same – Harry had lived to tell the tale and might not have done so without her outright lie in the face of the Dark Lord's wrath. 

As far as Hermione was concerned, if that wasn't worth an olive branch, nothing was. 

“Attending a party?” she asked in a voice of false cheeriness, wincing as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Ginny all but gawped at her, and she shot a look that said “ _help me!”_ at the redhead. 

Draco all but twitched. The shopkeeper returned, quickly taking the check as soon as he'd signed his name. 

“I am,” he finally replied. He didn't look at her as he tucked his checkbook into the pockets of his robes.

“In fact, Draco is a sponsor of the affair,” Narcissa chimed in, and all of them turned to look at her. She held her nose higher into the air. “He's just made a very generous donation and will, of course, be in attendance. He is very much a philanthropist - ”

“I'm done, mother,” Draco interrupted. He barely looked at Hermione and Ginny as he swept toward the shop door. He opened the door for her with a touch of impatience, and Narcissa gave the two girls one last tight-lipped look before she too strode off and vanished with her son into the streets of Diagon Alley.

“What was _that_?” Ginny exclaimed, staring at the door where the Malfoys had exited.

“I have no idea,” Hermione muttered. 


	3. Hermione: Jarila's Day

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. She was, if anything, a perfectionist; if she was going to make an effort to look nice, she was going to give it her all. 

She'd combed some Sleekeazy's Hair Potion through her unruly hair, which removed the (most of) the frizz but retained her curls. She'd then braided it up to circle the crown of her head, then gathered the rest into a soft knot at the base of her nape. With her hair out of the way, she'd applied a little makeup, slipped into her dress, and was ready by the time Ron arrived at her flat. 

Ron cocked his head at her when she made an appearance from her bedroom. Hermione smiled, twirling around so he could see. She and Ginny had chosen a dress in an elegant shade of champagne. It was draped across one of her shoulders and was cinched above her waist by a delicate braid of fabric. Hermione's favorite bit about it was the skirt – it flared beautifully around her and swayed with her every move. Ginny said that the dress made her look like a Greek goddess; how could Hermione say no to buying it after that?

“You clean up nice,” Ron said, giving her a pat on the back as soon as she'd walked over to him. They'd seen each other in formal attire often enough that the most of the novelty had worn off. Hermione was grateful for it; they didn't need another repeat of the Yule Ball.

“Thank you,” she said wryly. “You don't look bad yourself. The veela won't be able to keep their hands off you.” He was wearing plain black dress robes that were mercifully free of ruffles. She resisted the urge to laugh at his little bow tie.

“You think so?” Ron asked, smoothing the front of his dress robes consciously. 

“I'm not about to let you get a big head, so let's just leave it at that,” Hermione said firmly. She retrieved the invitation from her purse, reading the address of the Apparition point one more time before she held her arm out to him. 

Ron gripped her forearm tightly. Side-by-side Apparition was never enjoyable. Hermione nodded at him, and they disappeared from her apartment with a loud _crack._

A few moments later, the two of them stood at a clearing. A vast, sprawling garden stretched out before them, framed by lush woods and carpets of flowers in bloom. The entire party was spread out through the garden; Hermione could see clear fountains, trellises bursting with flowers, trees that seemed to stretch up into the sky. 

A large dance floor was spread out across the grass. Several couples were already swaying to the music of the band that was playing. Around the dance floor were several tables dressed in crisp, white linen. Lamps that glowed with a soft, golden light dotted the garden, and strung between them were golden fairy lights that shimmered and chimed in the breeze. The moon was full, and it was a balmy summer evening.

“Come on,” Hermione said, tugging at Ron's sleeve. He was already goggling at the veela that were Apparating behind him with their partners. He reluctantly allowed himself to be tugged away and led down the stone path that winded toward the tables. They strolled past a little trellis that was overflowing with cascades of beautiful flowers, stopping to shake hands with a few important people and to pose for pictures that would appear in the _Daily Prophet_. 

Hermione had just reached the tables when she heard someone call her name. She glanced around and spotted Margaret Weiss, the President of the British Society of Veela, walking toward them with a beaming smile. 

Margaret was a veela in her mid-fifties. As per her lineage, she looked radiant; men of all ages watched her with admiration as she walked over to Hermione and Ron. 

“I am so glad you could come,” she said, giving Hermione a kiss on each cheek, which Hermione returned. “We couldn't have organized this event without you!”

“I'm just glad I could help,” Hermione said earnestly. Margaret was kind and easygoing; Ron hadn't believed it when Hermione had told him about her, and Hermione had replied that not all veela were like Fleur. 

“This is my friend, Ron Weasley,” Hermione said, drawing Ron closer to them.

“Oh, of course, the famous Ronald Weasley!” Margaret exclaimed, pulling him closer to give him a kiss on each cheek as well. By the time she'd pulled away, Ron was blushing as red as a beet. “You must meet my daughter, Belladonna!”

Hermione smiled to herself as the older woman called Belladonna over. Ron was immediately taken with the younger part-veela and had stared at her as she drifted over, her silvery hair gleaming in the lamplight. He stared at her as introductions were made, and Hermione tried not to snort – he almost seemed like he was drooling. 

“Hermione, you must sit with us,” Margaret said, smiling at Hermione and Ron (who was now arm-in-arm with Belladonna).

“I would be honored,” Hermione said while Ron nodded eagerly.

They wound through the scenic path, exchanging greetings with several more people before stopping at a statue of Jarila that had been erected for the celebration.

Hermione tried to stop herself from laughing out loud at the sight of him. Jarila (or Jarilo, as he was also called) was a Slavic god in the image of a lithe, muscular man with a wreath of flowers in his long, flowing hair. He wore nothing but a loincloth and was seated astride a horse. He had a look on his face that was dreamy, intense, and seductive. Hermione thought he looked like he belonged on the cover of a raunchy bodice ripper. 

“A handsome fellow, isn't he?” Margaret said cheerfully, and the two girls chortled. “Did you know that Jarila is portrayed as a redhead?” she asked, turning toward Ron, who was staring at the statue with an expression of great disbelief. 

“Maybe that's why Fleur fell for Bill,” Ron said, twisting his face so that he could stare at the statue. “He has the long red hair and the expression right - ”

Hermione elbowed Ron, her face red with suppressed giggles.

“They also say that Jarila sometimes takes the form of a horse,” Belladonna said, a smile quirking on her lips. 

“So he's hung like a - ”

“ _Ron!_ ” Hermione and Belladonna burst into such a fit of giggles that they had to take a moment to compose themselves.

As soon as the two girls calmed down, they proceeded down the walkway, making pleasant conversation until they reached their table.

“Here we are,” Belladonna said, gesturing to a table nearest the center of the dance floor. Someone was already seated there, looking haughtily bored as he listened to the waltz the band was playing -

Hermione stopped in her tracks when she saw exactly who was at their table - none other than Draco Malfoy. 

He was, for lack of a better word, _resplendent_. His platinum-blond hair seemed to shine with a faint light, and his skin looked like alabaster. He glanced at her, did a double-take, and stared – Hermione could see that his eyes were a glowing quicksilver, and the intensity of his gaze made her stomach do a little squirm . . .

“Granger!” he exclaimed, but Hermione barely heard him.

“Oh, I see you know each other?” Margaret said, looking between the two of them with mild surprise. “Mr. Malfoy here has given a very generous donation to the Society.”

“ _Malfoy_?” Ron had also stopped in his tracks, and it was his exclamation that brought Hermione back down to earth. She shook her head vigorously to clear her thoughts.

“ _This_ was the party you were talking about?” Hermione paused, almost stammering as he turned to stare at her once more. He almost seemed to be glowing . . . something clicked in her mind, and her jaw dropped.

“You're part- _veela_?” she finally managed to squeak. There was only one explanation to her reaction towards him – the way her heart did that jump in her chest and the way butterflies seemed to flood her stomach . . .

He looked at her – when did he get to his feet? when did he get so _tall? -_ and his expression was one of barely disguised unhappiness. “What does it matter to you - ” Malfoy stopped, clenched his jaw, then said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. My great _grand_ - _mère_ _o_ n the Malfoy side is pure veela.”

Why had Hermione never noticed? She'd seen him a million times at Hogwarts before, and though she was familiar with his white-blond head and those eyes that were at times blue and at other times gray and at other times silver, she'd never put two and two together . . .

“We both attended Hogwarts,” Hermione finally managed to say, clearing her throat. Margaret and Belladonna were looking at her curiously, seeing as Ron and Malfoy were now looking away and looking quite disgruntled. “We were in the same year. I never noticed . . . ”

“Something escaped the Know-It-All Granger?” Malfoy muttered.

“Shut it,” Ron hissed.

“It's quite rare for men to inherit the veela traits,” Margaret explained patiently, choosing to ignore the two men as they glared at one another. “Only one out of ten veela are boys, so the word 'veela' doesn't readily come to mind when it comes to men. In that respect, the Malfoys are quite fortunate, as they have a father and son pair. As it is, the magic of all the veela around is likely affecting Mr. Malfoy, making his lineage seem more apparent than usual.”

They all looked at each other awkwardly before Belladonna broke the silence. “Shall we all take our seats, then?” Ron glared at Malfoy for a second longer and then pulled out Belladonna's chair. Malfoy stiffly went to assist Margaret, but she waved him away.

“I'm fine, really! You can see to Hermione instead. I've got to go greet the rest of the guests,” Margaret said airily, giving all of them a beaming smile. “I shall see you all later!” 

Hermione watched as Margaret strode back down the path that they'd come. It took her a while to realize that Ron and Malfoy were flanking her on both sides, one hand each on the back of her chair. They were staring at each other with steel behind their eyes.

“I'm capable of etiquette, Weasley,” Malfoy said coldly.

“You could have fooled me,” Ron replied with a sneer.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Hermione snapped. “Both of you get out of the way. I'm sitting down.” 

They both yanked their hands away as she pulled her chair out with more force than she normally would have, slamming her bum on the cushion irritably. “There,” she ground out. 

Belladonna was watching all of this with raised eyebrows, and she and Hermione exchanged glances. All at once, Hermione was ashamed of herself – they were all guests at a party, and they were behaving like they were children. 

“Why don't you tell me about your profession?” Belladonna inquired of Ron. He sat down beside her, and when she flipped her hair and turned on her veela charm, he began to talk about his job as an Auror. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. At least now he was more preoccupied by Belladonna than his rivalry with Malfoy. 

She and Malfoy sat in silence. He was staring stonily at the table setting, and Hermione found herself sneaking covert glances at him. He did look good -

She almost gasped at the thought. Malfoy, good looking?

 _Well_ , her voice in her head said fairly, _you did always like men with blond hair and blue eyes_ _._ An image of Gilderoy Lockhart came swimming unbidden in her memory, and she sighed. She'd like to think that she looked beyond the physical aspect, but when it came to pure looks . . . she had to admit that blond hair and blue eyes _did_ pique her fancy. Why else would she have a crush on Lockhart when she was twelve? He certainly had no _substance_.

She found herself vaguely wondering if Malfoy had any substance, and it was only when he looked at her did she realize that she was ogling him as if he were a fish in a tank. Hermione felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

_Olive branch. Remember the olive branch. Now is as good a time as any to extend it._ She willed herself to stay calm.

“How are you enjoying your evening?” she forced herself to ask, giving him an equally forced smile. 

“Stop it,” he said curtly. Hermione felt her jaw drop.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Stop trying to force it, Granger,” Malfoy said. “I thought you Gryffindors were straight to the point. What's your agenda?” 

“Trust a Slytherin to suspect that I have something up my sleeve when I'm just trying to be civil.” She took a deep breath, looking him square in the eye. “Look – I just want to put the past and our petty enmity behind us. That's all. I remember what you did for us when push came to shove, and I appreciate it.”

His eyes were narrowed in distrust, and Hermione didn't flinch or break eye contact. She could tell that he was thinking it over, mulling her words.

“Fine,” he almost spat. Hermione tried not to show her surprise or her relief. “How exactly do you want to go about that?”

Astonishing even herself, Hermione stood up and held her hand out to him. He stared at her uncomprehendingly until she waved her arm in front of his face. Malfoy hesitated a moment, then took her hand as he rose up as well. Without another word, Hermione made her way to the dance floor with Draco at her side.


	4. Draco: Jarila's Day

Draco's strategy to avoid awkwardness was to disappear altogether. Granger, however, met everything head-on. Was this something unique to her, or were all Gryffindors that reckless? Potter certainly rushed headlong into everything because he often thought his way was best (which, unfortunately, it often was), and Weasley followed suit because he had no understanding of finesse or tact. Granger, however, was obviously more intelligent than they were, and yet she was still grabbing the bull by its goddamn horns. Draco didn't mind that as long as it had nothing to do with _him_.

Unfortunately, her horn-grabbing had _everything_ to do with him that night. Draco couldn't help but feel like she'd made him into one of her projects. He would have preferred never seeing her and her two idiot friends ever again in his whole life – he'd done his part and turned the tides of war in Potter's favor. Hurrah. End of story. He could have left it at that and it would've been perfectly fine – but no, she wanted to be _friends_.

Why had he agreed? Partly because he believed her – Gryffindors never lied, or at least those like _her_ didn't – partly because he was curious. Oh, how his parents would die of shame.

He led her to the dance floor – out of habit, mostly – and immediately assumed the position for the waltz. Granger reached up to put her hand on his shoulder – why was she so short? - and put her other hand atop his arm, which was curved to support her back. Slowly, they revolved around the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer. She, on the other hand, felt as stiff as a board. She knew the steps and, at the very least, wasn't treading on his feet. However, he felt that that godawful statue of Jarila might've had more grace than she did.

“I'm surprised,” he said in his old, familiar drawl, breaking their tense silence. She looked up at him in surprise. “There's something in this world that you can't do perfectly.” Granger tensed up, and he almost had to drag her to the next position. “You're not a very good dancer.” When she remained glued to the spot, he let go of her, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.

“Why not?” she asked. Draco raised both eyebrows. She wanted him to critique her dancing? He'd always known that she was competitive – he was the unfortunate second all throughout their Hogwarts days – but she trusted him not to deride her? She wouldn't have given him that opening when they were children.

“First of all, Granger, you're not enjoying yourself,” he said shortly. “If you don't enjoy dancing, you won't be good at it. Secondly, dancing with you feels like dancing with a broom. You aren't moving into the dance. You're just stepping into position every time.”

“My name's Hermione,” she said, making him blink at her. “And fine. Let's try it again.” Without so much as another word of explanation, she stepped into his arms once more, visibly loosening her shoulders and her clenched jaw.

She really was serious about this bury-the-hatchet thing, wasn't she?

Draco slid his arm around her back again and raised her hand to his shoulder. He guided her into the flow of the music, and this time, she did much better; her eyes were half-lidded as she attempted to melt into the dance, letting him lead her across the floor.

He could see Weasley glaring at him from their table and couldn't help his smirk. Old grudges were hard to forget, and a grudge that had been passed down from one's fathers was even harder to shake off.

“What are you making that face for?” Hermione demanded; he realized that she believed he was making fun of her dancing.

“I think Weasley over there thinks that I'm committing a crime punishable by imprisonment,” Draco replied as he twirled her around smoothly.

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

“Dancing with you,” he supplied, and comprehension dawned in her eyes. He noticed that they were a rich, warm brown – it reminded him of rum and chocolate.

_Waxing poetic about Granger, are we?_ a snide voice in his head piped up, and he very nearly froze in place. He covered it up by spinning her around again.

“Ron knows that I can dance with whoever I want,” Hermione was saying, but he ignored her for the moment as he took up the steps to the waltz automatically so that he could have time to think.

Granger – or Hermione, as she now insisted on being called – had never really been truly _ugly_. She wasn't a dramatic beauty like the veela that surrounded them now, but she certainly could look charming. Most of his memories of her appearance alluded to her ridiculous bushy hair and the ton of books that she always carted around and hid behind. However, he did recall how he'd realized with surprise that she wasn't all that homely when she stepped into the Great Hall arm-in-arm with Viktor Krum on the eve of the Yule Ball. The fact that a Muggleborn could be pretty when he'd been raised to think that they were brutish louts was astonishing to him, so he'd put it out of his mind.

Now, he looked her over discreetly, thinking that she didn't look as barbaric at all. In fact, she looked elegant and pretty – radiant in her own way. If veela were illuminated by moon- and starlight, radiant and glittering, she was warm and soft – like candlelight. He found that she didn't look bad at all.

The waltz came to a close, and Draco brought himself back to the present as he sank into a bow out of habit. Hermione momentarily looked confused.

“Are we going to stop dancing now?” she asked, and then flushed when she seemed to think better of what she'd said.

Draco's brows rose up to his hairline. Again, he was taken aback by how determined she seemed to be to make amends with him.

“Would you like another?” he asked as politely as he could, although he just wanted to shake her and ask _why_.

She seemed to think of it, and then nodded. “I would,” Hermione replied. The band struck up a rumba.

“Do you know how to dance the rumba?” Draco asked, noting her look of surprise and nervousness when the couples all around her took to the steps. She shook her head.

She was offering him a chance to renew their acquaintance. He hesitated a moment before saying, somewhat brusquely, “I can teach you.” It was good to have her in his debt, to show that he was skilled at something that she wasn't, and to watch Weasley's look of rage as he put her through her paces. That's what he told himself when she nodded, a smile lighting up her face as she stepped back into his arms, ready to learn.

He guided her into the steps, moving his hips, trying to keep himself distanced and uninterested – but it was hard to miss that look she was giving him as she tried to follow his lead. Perhaps it was the veela blood in him – whenever veela danced, the audience stopped breathing.

That's what he told himself this time as he tried to ignore her rapt expression.

She picked up the dance, although somewhat clumsily, until she was finally moving in his arms, swaying with him – an unwanted shiver ran down his spine when she pressed close, and he could smell the perfume of her hair and her skin. This wasn't the shiver of revulsion that he had always associated with her and Muggleborns – this was something different entirely.

He looked into her eyes, mesmerized despite himself as they moved together. Her hair almost seemed luxuriantly golden in the lamplight, her skin a muted amber-cream.

The music grew more passionate, and they fell into the rhythm, the push-and-pull, the flow and ebb. Hermione hadn't broken eye contact, and neither had he, until -

She was rising up on tiptoe to twirl around gracefully, and her eyes fluttered closed as she stepped into his arms, against the solidity of his chest. Her lips looked soft, and Draco could only look at her, his heart hammering, until she opened her eyes once more and they were staring at each other, enthralled, bemused, _tempted_ –

“Hermione!”

Her head whipped around as Weasley called her name. He was stalking onto the dance floor, Belladonna beside him. Draco had the fleeting impression that the redhead was going to whip his wand out and curse him, when –

“We're going to dance too,” Weasley said, glaring daggers at Draco as Belladonna took up position. Belladonna smiled at Weasley, and the other man's gaze softened. He seemed torn between wanting to enjoy himself and acting as a chaperone for his friend.

Draco sighed. Hermione turned to him, her expression one that was rueful, almost sheepish, and quite exasperated.

The rumba wound to a close. This time, Draco didn't bow.

“Another?” he asked, raising his chin in challenge while he kept his eyes on Weasley.

“Yes,” Hermione said, sighing as well.

They took up positions, this time for another waltz, beside Weasley and Belladonna. They had just started when Draco asked, “Have you read the newest article in the Scripting Studies journal about the ancient scrolls discovered in Palestine?”

Hermione's eyes lit up, and Ron goggled at her and at Draco. He smirked. Might as well bore the other man while having his own bit of fun.

“Yes, of course, I'd always thought that Mesopotamian scripts would bear an influence in Ancient Runes that we see until today - ”

Draco listened to her as she gushed about the article, surprised that he was interested in what she had to say – and that she wanted to hear his own thoughts about the subject.

This was turning into a very strange night.

 


	5. Potions and Passion

“I've recently taken to placing a piece of citrine in my cauldrons while I'm not using them,” Draco said, and Hermione nodded eagerly.

“Oh, yes, I've read about the use of crystals as aids in all branches of magic, particularly potions; I suppose that you do that to keep the cauldrons clean and free of any outside magical influence while they're idle? Do you swirl the citrine around the cauldron with a gold pestle as well?”

Across Hermione, Ron gave Draco a nasty look, as though it was his fault that he had suddenly become interesting. It was a good thing, though, that Belladonna easily kept Ron preoccupied all throughout dinner, and she'd just begun to ask him about Quidditch – the perfect distraction for the former Keeper. Immediately he launched into a monologue about his best saves, although truth be told, Hermione didn't notice – she was too busy discussing potions with Malfoy. Or rather, _Draco_.

It was surprising to Hermione that Draco was far more intelligent than she remembered him to be. Then again, they never actually spoke to one another when they were at Hogwarts except to exchange barbs. While he did make it into several of her advanced classes in their sixth year, she'd been too busy paying attention to her own studies to pay _him_ any attention, while _he_ at the time had been busy with . . .

Hermione's thoughts momentarily turned to dark recollections, and she waved them away impatiently and focused on her conversation with Draco once again. He was still talking about the cleansing abilities of citrine and thankfully hadn't noticed her lapse in concentration. He was animated in conversation, and a slight smile played on his lips as they talked. Hermione realized that she'd never actually seen him smiling without malice; he usually favored her with arrogant smirks or scowls of derision when they were younger. She decided that she liked this Draco better. He was still somewhat closed, distinctly standoffish, but he was talking to her regardless and he had plenty of things to interesting things to share.

“I unfortunately don't have much of a reason to be brewing potions at home, since my line of work doesn't really require it, though I do occasionally make the typical things – Pepperup Potion during the cough and cold season, Sleekeazy's Hair Potion for special occasions like tonight - ”

“So that's why you don't have your usual lion's mane,” Draco interrupted with a smirk. “Can't say that I've ever needed Sleekeazy's . . .”

“ _Malfoy_ \- ” Ron growled from across the table. He'd apparently been listening with half an ear.

“ - has to realize that comments on my hair don't bother me at all, so wasting his breath on any more said comments would be useless,” Hermione cut in, interrupting the brewing hostilities and giving both men an arch look. Once again, she cast Belladonna a furtive look; she was embarrassed about how the three of them easily devolved into such petty arguments worthy of teenagers. She was glad that the part-veela was bearing it all with a patient expression. It was obvious what sort of relationship she and Ron had versus Draco when they were younger, though Hermione thought that it was about time for them to grow up.

Seeing as her two former classmates had shut up about it, she decided to steer the conversation back to calmer waters. “As I was saying, I don't brew potions as much as I probably ought to or want to, but what about you, Draco?” she asked diplomatically, proud that she hadn't stumbled over his name. Mentioning it still brought about some awkwardness, but she was determined to move past it.

He nodded, once again his brooding, haughty self. “I had a small business venture a year ago with a new potion in the market. I don't know if you would have heard of it."

"What was it called?" she asked.

He hesitated, a struggle in his eyes, before he replied. "Phasma Dolor.”

“ _What_?” Hermione exclaimed, and Draco stopped talking, his brows raised. “ _Of course_ I've heard about Phasma Dolor, it was on _Potions Periodical_ and _Ars Venenum_. It's the best analgesic potion for pain caused by Dark magic . . . but the journal articles always stated that the creator didn't want to release his identity to the public. You were involved in its creation?”

Draco nodded, his expression shuttered. He was silent for a moment before he said quietly, “I made it.”

Hermione gasped, leaning forward in her chair, elation written all over her face. “Draco, that's wonderful – you've really contributed to medical magic!”

He fixed his gaze upon her, and his quicksilver eyes almost seemed to sear her skin. Hermione's breath caught in her throat despite herself, and her heart thundered in her chest. Those eyes . . .

“It's not a famous potion. It shouldn't be – we shouldn't have any Dark Warlocks running around anymore, do we?” His lips curved into a small, bitter smile.

Hermione was taken aback by his response. “Regardless, why didn't you want to be credited for your work?”

“You're such a Gryffindor,” he responded, and she was offended by his generalization.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that you don't see how nasty people can be. A good thing from a 'bad' source wouldn't be trusted, and would be second-guessed at every turn. People will be asking me and my family left, right, and center – did I do it for the gold? The publicity? Are the ingredients Ministry-approved, or did I procure them through illegal sources? Is the potion truly safe, or will it suddenly manifest ill effects after prolonged use?” Draco muttered, his voice flat.

Hermione thought fleetingly of Harry's reaction to Snape's Wolfsbane Potion for Professor Lupin, and she shifted in her seat.

“I'm sorry,” she said earnestly. She understood his reluctance now – he and his family had had enough bad publicity for one lifetime, and now that their names were clear, Draco probably didn't want to draw any more prying eyes in their direction, regardless of his good intentions. The fact that he released the potion anonymously meant that he wanted for it to do good things, his reputation aside. “I'm glad you still published your work. I hope the day when the Wizarding World needs Phasma Dolor won't ever darken our doorsteps. Regardless, it makes me and a lot of people feel better that the formula is there, ready to be brewed should we need it.”

Draco was quiet for a while. The lamplight shone in his hair and in his eyes. Hermione found herself breathless as she watched him. He, too, had borne much, and come out of it a better person; Hermione could see that now.

“Well, this is a very serious conversation for a party, isn't it?” he finally remarked, a ghost of a smile flickering onto his mouth. She chuckled softly.

“Possibly,” she said in turn, though she was glad for it – she got to learn a little bit more about Draco Malfoy.

Just then, the audience quieted as Margaret rose out of her seat, beaming at the crowd. The couples upon the dance floor moved away to give her room, and Hermione watched attentively as the veela woman walked over to a podium that magically rose from the dance floor.

“Good evening, esteemed guests; veela, wizard, and witch alike. Thank you very much for attending the annual Jarila's Day celebration hosted by the British Society of Veela,” Margaret began, smiling as her opening garnered a round of applause.

“Since the 10  th  century, the veela have been celebrating Jarila's Day among our kind; it is a time to celebrate life and love, rebirth and renewal, the joy of a new day in the blaze of the sun each morning, and the happiness of a new life in the magic of the union between lovers.

“May our celebration tonight bring you the blessings of Jarila!”

Her exclamation was met with another loud round of applause.

“To start tonight's revelry, I would like to invite my daughter, Belladonna Weiss, to light the ceremonial bonfire with her magic. May this symbolize the union between veela and the Wizarding World, the joining of the old traditions with the new ways, and the friendship and love between those of us present.”

The crowd was quiet and expectant as Belladonna stood by her mother's side. A golden pyre was brought in by several beautiful women, one of them a part-witch, levitating the pyre with her wand. The dance floor vanished, and the pyre was lowered gently onto the grass.

Belladonna approached the kindling, her wand aloft. In a graceful, sweeping motion, she struck her wand upon the mouth of the pyre; the sound caused a resounding, pure note upon contact, ringing and bright. Fire bloomed from the very tip of her wand, flowing into the vessel. The firewood then burst into golden flame, radiant and incandescent, like the very first rays of sunrise; within seconds, the fire roared into a large blaze.

The crowd clapped and cheered as Margaret announced, “Let the festivities _truly_ begin!”

Hermione applauded enthusiastically with everyone as the band struck up the music once again. Their melody was now primal and deep, and the drums seemed to resound in her bones. She'd been looking forward to seeing this ceremony since she'd read up on Jarila's Day traditions, and the fire was even more beautiful than she'd imagined. It held all of the sun's warmth and goodness, as well as the promises of a new day and a new life.

She took a deep breath. The flowers seemed to be so much more fragrant, the stars much more alive then she'd ever seen them. A smile rose to her lips, and she tipped her head back, savoring the breeze that suddenly lifted around them.

The veela and their lovers began to take to the grass, the gardens, and the woods around them – dancing in a way that she'd never seen them dance before. It was wild, raw, and yet absolutely breathtaking. They seemed to flicker in and out between their forms – sometimes they were women, with silvery blond hair and twinkling eyes – sometimes they were feral creatures, with scaly wings and fierce talons – and they were beautiful, whatever appearance they took. Hermione felt her heart clench with the beauty and the intensity of their revelry as the fire in the ceremonial pyre burned higher.

Ron was staring agog at Belladonna as she came closer. She was dancing in the same way that the other veela were – her arms crooked above her head, a smile on her face as she gyrated to the fast tempo of the drums. As if hypnotized, Ron rose up to meet her; she extended her hands to him, and he kissed them both as she led him to the grass. Together, they began to dance, their arms entwining, bodies pressing against one another's.

Hermione couldn't help her wry smile as she watched the two of them. It was nauseating, to say the least, to watch a friend getting amorous with someone – but it seemed _right_ , in this time and place.

Her gaze drifted over to Draco, and she was surprised to see that his eyes were burning bright, somewhere between silver and blue. Once again, her breath caught in her throat; he was almost glowing, and it shone in his pale hair, the sharp curve of his cheekbones, his mouth . . .

_Oh god_ , she wanted to say, but no sound emerged from her lips.

Draco stared at her as the drums pounded and the fire crackled and blazed. Shrieks and cries of joy rose up around them as the veela and their partners were swept away by the wildness of it all. The magic stirred between her and Draco, and she watched dreamily as he held a hand out to her. She took it without thinking, a heated blush rising to her cheeks as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering there.

He stood, and so did she. There was a spot near the trees, and they glided towards it, as though in a dream, swimming through seas of lovers as they finally stood face-to-face. Their fingers entwined, and he began to dance, lifting their hands up, throwing their heads back to savor the night, the music driving hard and fast in their veins.

Was she aware that this was Draco Malfoy she was dancing with? Yes. And the way he stared at her, she knew that he knew who she was too, and just didn't give a damn at this very moment.

They ground against one another, panting as the music swept them higher and higher. Their breathing mingled, and their eyes locked upon one another's.

Knowing that this was the right thing to do, Hermione wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss, her mouth almost crashing into his. Momentarily he froze against her – and so did she, to be honest, wondering what the _hell_ she was doing – but within the next breath, he was kissing her in return with the same ferocity, devouring her as though she was the sweetest treat and he was ravenous for but a taste of her.

All doubts vanished from her mind then as she pressed up against him and he pulled her close, his mouth hot and delicious against hers.


End file.
